


Walkabout

by redketchup



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Gen, Protective May Parker (Spider-Man), Tony Stark Has A Heart, peter parker has some serious abandonment issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-05-23 10:33:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14932592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redketchup/pseuds/redketchup
Summary: And Mr. Stark cuts him off, maybe trying for interested, who knows, but it comes off as dismissive instead. “It’s calculus, kid. You’re supposed to hate it, but it’s not the end of the world.”And now Peter feels like an idiot, talking about how much high school calculus sucks with Iron Man.(or, in which Peter has to deal with knowing he's not an Avenger, but he's definitely not a normal kid, either.)





	1. Baby Steps

He remembers his dad missed New Years once.

Mom had sat him at the kitchen table while she peeled potatoes. There were still Christmas lights up, and Peter’s Christmas toys were still littered across the house. Except Peter hadn’t been playing with toys, he stayed busy coloring pages and pages of creatures with shaky outlines, absurd pigments, and lopsided limbs.

“Oh, very nice, Peter,” his mom said, pointing at one of his doodles while turning the oven on. “I’ve never seen a three-eyed cat. Very nice.”

It’s weird. Out of the few memories he has of his parents, he only remembers the useless stuff. Like the exact way his mom pointed at his drawing with her index finger, how she said “very nice” twice in one sentence. He can’t remember how his mom smelled, or what his dad’s laugh sounded like. Just singular moments that don’t tell him anything at all.

He also remembers that despite being with his mom that day, despite having her compliment his terrible pictures, he was mad.

“Why can’t we go to Uncle Ben’s?” Peter asked, and his feet didn’t reach the floor, so he swung them back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

She opened the oven door and peered inside. “I told you, baby. Uncle Ben and Aunt May are at a friend’s in Philadelphia this weekend.”

“Are they allowed to be at a friend’s?” he asked. “I thought holidays were for family.”

His mom had laughed, and he remembers not liking it. He remembers thinking he said something stupid. He squinted at his drawing of a three-eyed cat and pursed his lips.

“You can spend holidays with friends,” she said. “Ben and May are young and don’t have any children, so they are free to go where they want.”

(He’ll think about that later. Much later. Ben and May never wanted kids, but they got stuck with him. He wonders if that meant he trapped them. Ruined their freedom to go and do what they want.)

Peter said, “So why’s dad not here?”

She sighed. He had asked this question about five times now. Peter swung his legs. The chair rocked a little.

“Peter, please,” Mom said, and he can still remember the lilt in her words, the way her consonants swung low. “He would be here if he could, but daddy’s got work today. It’ll just be me and you, okay?”

It wasn’t okay. Peter really liked New Years. He tried staying up every time. His mom would buy flimsy party hats from the local party store. Dad usually cooked. Peter liked the idea of something being new, even if it was a year.

But all he could picture that New Years was his dad, gone.

“Peter,” Mom pressed.

He remembers her shirt was wrinkled. She was wearing loose grey slacks. Her eyes had dark circles underneath. That’s how Peter remembers his mother; crumpled, ashen, tired.

(Aunt May and Uncle Ben didn’t have kids, so they could do as they liked. What did that mean for Peter’s parents?)

Peter said, “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

Mr. Stark tells him, “It’s calculus, kid. You’re supposed to hate it, but it’s not the end of the world,” and then, at the long stretch of silence from Peter’s end, “I know. High school sucks.”

Peter readjusts his grip on his phone, his hands a gross combination of clammy and sticky. The heating in their apartment building is either on or off, no adjustments. May chooses inferno over freezing, keeping the heat on — blasting out of the rattling radiator — during the winter. Otherwise, they’d have to wear their coats inside the apartment, what with the cold seeping through the windows, and Aunt May trying to cook a turkey meatloaf with a bubble coat on? Not happening.

But it’s January, Peter is on his bedroom floor, it’s about two hours since he came back from patrol — fine, May, I’m fine, May, relax, May, I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry — and it’s just so _hot._

Mr. Stark sighs, the air crackling through the phone, and says, “Kid.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, instantly. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right, I was just — it’s stupid. Yeah.”

And it is stupid. Mr. Stark calls, it’s 12:33 AM, and Peter knows he should appreciate it. He should really, truly appreciate it. Whatever this is. The “check on the spider-kid” thing that Mr. Stark has started ever since Peter declined the invite to the Avengers, since Mr. Stark forgave him for the ferry thing. He calls, once in awhile, maybe every three weeks, and Peter answers.

But it’s 12:33 AM, Peter's saying, “It’s so, I mean — _calculus,_ Mr. Stark. It’s stressing me out. The math is easy, I just don’t have the time or — or, or maybe I just don’t want to waste my time, y’know? And god, Mrs. Hughes has been singling me out, and she knows I get it so why is she even —“

And Mr. Stark cuts him off, maybe trying for interested, who knows, but it comes off as dismissive instead. “It’s calculus, kid. You’re supposed to hate it, but it’s not the end of the world.”

And now Peter feels like an idiot, talking about how much high school calculus sucks with _Iron Man._

On Mr. Stark’s end, he hears an indistinguishable woman’s voice murmur something in the background. Mr. Stark must pull the phone away from his ear, because he says something back, but even with enhanced hearing it just sounds like garble.

Peter looks down at his textbook, opened to page 157. There’s a weird brown stain on the edge of one of the pages. It’s shaped like a cucumber.

“Hey, listen,” Mr. Stark is saying. “I’m hanging up, but I wanted to say you’re doing good. The whole neighborhood watch thing? It’s good. You keep your eyes on the little guy, I’ll keep my eyes on you. It’s a well-oiled machine. Backbone of America type of stuff.”

Peter can’t help but look towards his bed, where he left the suit splayed out on the bottom bunk after patrol.

“Do I need eyes on me?” Peter asks before he can help himself, and he instantly cringes.

Filter. Filter, Peter, he tells himself. This call is a baby step. Baby steps, Peter. No more giant leaps. Well, besides leaps from skyscrapers. Those are okay. But metaphorical giant leaps, those are the bad ones. Metaphorical giant leaps are things like blowing up ferries, getting multi-million suits taken away by Tony Stark, leaving your homecoming date at the dance because her father is a psychopath. Confronting said psychopath and getting buildings dropped on you. Crashing planes on beaches beside Coney Island.

Leaps and bounds.

“For now,” Mr. Stark says, and it’s so easy for him to say. Pete’s still trying to put together an apology. “You understand, Mr. Parker. Responsibility and all that.”

“Right. Right, Mr. Stark.” Peter drags a hand through his hair, and then he does it again. “I’m sorry, I just. I don’t know.”

Mr. Stark snorts. “It’s that calculus. Messing with your head.”

Peter laughs. “Yeah, that shitty calculus.”

“See, I don’t know if should reprimand the swearing. Is that something I should do? That seems like something Aunt Hottie would want me to do. But then again, it is —“

“— calculus,” Peter finishes, and he’s smiling down at the cucumber stain.

“Yes,” Mr. Stark says, and it sounds like he might be smiling, too. “That shitty calculus. Alright, go to bed, Underoos, and eat your Wheaties, or something. Insert whatever cliché advice is necessary there.”

Peter doesn’t remind him that it was Dr. Banner, technically, that did Wheaties promotions (at least, back before he disappeared). Peter wouldn’t have the time to, anyway, because Mr. Stark is already hanging up, already talking to whoever it is that’s in the background, and Peter watches a bead of sweat drop from his forehead and onto page 157.

He pulls back his phone, stares at the call information on his screen.

Incoming call, it says, received at 12:29 AM. A four minute and forty-three second call.

“Baby steps,” Peter tells himself, and he closes his calculus book.

 

* * *

 

Ned is showing Peter a blurry YouTube video of Spider-Man narrowly avoiding a bus on Roosevelt Avenue when Flash pours a carton of milk over Peter’s shoulder.

Ned’s on the end of the table, and when he flails his hand smacks into Peter’s head. Peter tries to dodge, any direction really, but his leg gets caught under the lunch table, and he slips off his seat and crashes onto the floor. Chocolate milk soaks into Peter’s shirt.

Peter looks up to meet Flash’s eyes. Flash quirks an eyebrow, pursing his lips.

“Yikes,” Flash says, crumpling the now empty milk carton in his fist. “Sorry about that, Penis Parker.”

“You’re a dick,” Ned says, angry and reaching towards the ground for Peter.

Flash sways on his feet, looking pleased. “Sorry, Leeds, incorrect. It’d make sense for Penis Parker to be the dick, wouldnt it? It’s his namesake.”

Ned places a firm hand on Peter’s shoulder, and it should be fine. It’s Ned, his best friend. And Peter tries, he seriously tries, but he still recoils, even if it’s Ned.

Ned instantly let’s go, hand hovering. His eyebrows caterpillar together, an apology in his eyes. Peter feels guilt like the milk sticking against his skin.

“Flash,” a voice says from down the table. The three of them turn.

MJ closes the book she’s reading, eyes narrowed. “I know you have borderline sociopathic urges because of what can only be your surplus of daddy issues, but seriously?”

Ned bites his lip to stop himself from snorting. Flash fidgets. Peter crawls to his knees, using the table to pull himself up.

“C’mon, MJ —“

“Only my friends call me MJ,” she says.

Flash rolls his eyes, spreading his arms wide. “Okay, _Michelle_. It was just a little prank. Something for a laugh. Laughter’s the best medicine there is.”

“If laughter is the best medicine,” Ned says, “then your face must be curing the world.”

Flash’s face reddens. “Watch it, Leeds, or you’ll regret it.”

“Flash,” MJ says, crossing her arms atop of her book and her expression dripping with mock confusion. “You’re not sounding like a team player, and I have to make sure collaboration is a priority among the decathlon team. Otherwise… well, who knows.”

Peter is standing now, and he’s kind of just staring at MJ.

It’s been different, ever since MJ became captain. Before, Peter knew nothing about her. He was too preoccupied with Liz and finding his footing with the Spider-Man stuff. He didn’t have the time to really notice MJ, if he’s honest. But now, after he’s rejected the invite to the Avengers, and now that he’s trying to balance the Peter Parker and Spider-Man lifestyles, and Liz is across the country because Peter ruined her life, he finds himself _seeing_ MJ.

She talks to Peter and Ned more, though it’s still in turns. Some days she’s more lively than others, and Peter gets that, he really does.

Anyway, over the course of a few months they’ve found out that she’s never watched Star Wars but she loves Star Trek. One time, when she was nine-years-old, she had to get six stitches because she stole her mom’s car keys and tried to drive the family car. She made it ten feet before hitting a telephone pole. MJ sometimes sits with Abe and Cindy at lunch, but most of the time she stays at Ned and Peter’s table.

Peter has AP United States History with MJ, and he always thought she didn’t care about any of the classes, what with her constant reading and disinterested comments. But she proved that wrong with the fact that she can read while debating Mr. Harmon on the patriotism of Memorial Day when its establishment was made as propaganda for the Vietnam War, and she once spent a whole period explaining that capitalism in America started with the transatlantic slave trade.

The other kids love it when she debates with teachers, saying she’s the best at wasting class time, and Peter wants to tell them to stop being stupid. MJ isn’t trying to waste class time, she’s genuine. She’s really passionate about this stuff. He doesn’t know how he never noticed before.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Flash asks. “You can’t take me off the team.”

MJ quirks an eyebrow, and it makes even Peter nervous. Flash gapes, his brain finally catching up to who he’s arguing with probably.

Peter’s buzzing, like there’s static under his skin. He plucks at this soaked shirt.

“Go away, Flash,” Peter sighs. “Nice joke. Real funny. Ha, ha.”

Ned says, “Peter.”

Peter shakes his head and Ned drops it. Flash looks between the three of them, with MJ and her open-ended threat, Ned standing firm at Peter’s side, and Peter who looks like a melted Choc Pop.

“Whatever,” Flash mutters, and then he storms off.

MJ snorts, uncrossing her arms and leaning back. “I’d like to see the Avengers last a day in high school.”

Ned shoots Peter a look, like he expects the Avengers to pop up just by mentioning them, which is about as obvious as Tony Stark in 2009 announcing to the world, “I am Iron Man.”

They’re gonna need to talk about playing it cool. Especially since May is in the know, and Peter can’t have Ned talking about superhero stuff at the apartment. May’s blood pressure will go through the roof.

“Are you okay, Pete?” Ned asks, still hovering.

Peter shuffles, cringing at the squelch from his shirt. “Yeah, I’ll just run by the nurse’s office before class. See what’s in the lost and found.”

“Oh, my god,” MJ says. They stare at her. “This is making me depressed just from watching you.”

She stands up. “C’mon, Parker. I have a shirt you can wear.”

Ned and Peter exchange a look. MJ tucks her book under her arm. She doesn’t wait to see if they follow her as she heads for the hallway.

“Dude,” Ned whispers, as they trail behind a briskly walking MJ, because why not. “Why do you let Flash do that to you? You could totally, like, send him across —“

“Dude,” Peter returns. “Shut up. Oh, my god.”

“He’s right, you know,” MJ says suddenly, and Peter only jumps a little. She turns around, walking backwards. “You’re only a loser because you let him treat you like one.”

And he… he doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Well, uh, y’know. It’s just.” Both Ned and MJ are staring, so he forces out a laugh, probably sounds hysterical when he does it. He clears his throat. “Trying to be the bigger man and all that.”

Ned coughs into his hand. MJ just stares.

God, what’d he’d give to be fighting a mugger or five right now.

High school sucks.

“Sure,” MJ says, and she turns back around heading for a top locker on the left side of the hall.

“Why do you have extra clothes in your locker, anyway?” Ned asks, and Peter could kiss him for changing the subject.

MJ shrugs, which jostles the book under her arm. She spins her combination into the lock. The first number is 27. Peter misses the rest. She spins it too fast. The middle number might be a 5.

“I jog home after school sometimes.” She puts the last number, jerks the locker open. “It’s big on me, so it should swallow you, Peter.”

“Great,” Peter says, but he accepts the blue, cotton shirt she thrusts at him.

“Yeah, well. I want it back eventually.” MJ watches Peter, and when he doesn’t say anything she says to both of them, “See you at practice.”

MJ walks away, and Peter should say something. He should say something. To her. To Ned, for standing up for him.

“Dinner!” Peter calls after her.

“Uh, Peter?” Ned asks.

MJ pauses and stares.

Peter wrings the shirt between his hands. “We — we have dinner. I mean, everyone has dinner. Usually. But our dinner. My aunt, that is. She cooks, and it’s not good.” Peter grimaces. That wasn’t what he wanted to say. “You should come. Only if you want to, of course. It’s, uh, it’s usually a mess, but it can be fun. Ned comes.”

Ned doesn’t notice Peter’s disjointed rambling. Best friends are deaf to that kind of thing. That’s why it’s easy for him to agree and say, “It’s true. May Parker makes dinner an adventure.”

“And!” Peter says, because MJ is still staring at the two of them. “We could watch Star Wars, since you’ve never watched it. Or, or Star Trek. I don’t mind. Like, we could do one week at my place, another at Ned’s.”

“My grandma makes banging lasagna,” Ned adds.

MJ works her jaw, and she’s quiet for a long time. Peter can see her trying to find a way to say no that won’t make her come off as a jerk, probably.

But then she says, “Don’t expect me to invite you to my place.”

“That,” Peter clears his throat. “That wasn’t what I was saying.”

She looks to the floor, looks back up. She crosses her arms, uncrosses them.

“I know.” She looks at Ned, looks at Peter. “Yeah, that sounds nice. Dinner and movies. Banging lasagna. Okay.”

Peter squeezes the shirt. “Okay.”

Ned grins. “Hell yeah.”

She rocks to the side, stepping away. “I better see you at decathlon more, though, Parker. I’m serious.”

And then she leaves.

 

* * *

 

Peter Parker (10:11 PM): hey happy. there was this crazy car chase out in the suburbs, helped the police stop that. sorry about the fire hydrant, tho. there was this dog fighting ring I took care of this weekend too

happy more like grumpy (10:26 PM): Good work.

Peter Parker (10:26 PM): thanks. just a problem is that the police said most of the dogs will be put down tho…

Peter Parker (10:31 PM): idk if there’s anything we can do?

Peter Parker (10:32 PM): or just me. is there anything I can do? I want to help, y’know?

Peter Parker (10:33 PM): cause it’s not the dogs fault, and they could be like rehabilitated right?

happy more like grumpy (10:38 PM): That’s something for animal control to decide, kid. Leave it be.

Peter Parker (10:39 PM): ok

 

* * *

 

“May,” he says, and he’s probably pushed the tuna meatball on his plate around the edges for three minutes now.

May’s glasses are sliding down her nose, she’s reading a National Geographic issue. “Hmm?”

He saves the meatball from toppling off his plate. “Do any of your work friends like dogs?”

May looks up, eyebrows scrunched together. “What?”

Peter stabs the meatball. “I, uh, helped stop a dog fighting ring.”

Aunt May had picked up her mug of tea while he was speaking, and she just about chokes to death on some Oolong.

Peter waves his hands frantically, the forked meatball waggling along. “It wasn’t anything dangerous! I swear! It’s just that now the dogs are overcrowding the nearby shelter. I think I got a bunch of dogs a death sentence by stopping the ring.”

He really hates that. Every time he tries to help, it always ends up having something go wrong.

May slowly lowers her cup of tea. She pushes up her glasses. She rests a hand over the National Geographic, takes it away, puts it back. God, her and Peter are so alike. Their quirks had always been on a single wave.

He barely remembers his mother -- _crumpled, ashen, and tired_ \--  but everytime he tries to picture her all he sees is May’s nose and May’s glasses.

And she’s giving him those eyes. The Aunt May Eyes that mean she might pop with how much she loves him. It’s a little embarrassing.

She says, “You did a really kind thing, Peter.”

He shrugs in his chair.

She tries again, “How about I make a Facebook post to help spread the word? I’ll pester all my fake online friends about it, too. If I can deal with all their Angry Bird invites then they can deal with some good community outreach. Sound good?”

And he loves her so much, he feels like _he_ might pop with it.

 

* * *

 

 

buggy boy (1:12 AM): how do you feel about volunteering with me

buggy boy (1:12 AM): at the dog shelter by macy's

guy in the chair (1:13 AM): uh

guy in the chair (1:13 AM) that sounds amazing. dogs, resume builder, dogs. awesome

buggy boy (1:14 AM): cool. I'll check out the volunteering process. ur the best

guy in the chair (1:15 AM): I know. will you have time for it tho?

buggy boy (1:15 AM): I'll make time

guy in the chair (1:16 AM): just don't miss decathlon. mj will murder you

 

* * *

 

MJ smacks his phone out of his hands in the library.

It clatters to the table Peter’s sitting at. His headphones are ripped out of his ears and tangle across his arms.

“Dude,” Peter says.

MJ sits down across from him, propping her chin in the palm of her hand. “Don’t you get tired of watching all those videos?”

Peter blinks, looking down to his cracked phone screen. He has a live-feed up, it’s of Mr. Stark arriving at a private Nairobi airport. The headline says, _Iron Man arrives for Sokovia Accords meeting at Nairobi United Nations’ office._

“No,” he says. “Why would I?”

MJ raises her eyebrows. “Something something Stark Internship. That’s why. If you’re already working for the guy, shouldn’t you already hear enough of this stuff?”

Peter thinks about his call history. Four minutes and forty-three seconds spent talking about calculus with Tony Stark.

His ears must be turning red, because MJ’s mouth thins and she looks away.

“Sorry,” she says.

He bobs his head in a weird nod. He twists a headphone between his index and thumb. MJ works her jaw.

“If you haven’t noticed yet,” she says. “I’m not really good at socializing. I’m told I can be blunt.”

It’s a very genuine thing to come from Michelle Jones. Peter wonders if it’s significant that she’s telling it to him.

“Blunt isn’t really the same as mean,” he says. “You have the honest part of communication down, just need to be more open.”

MJ huffs a laugh. “You’re almost quoting Dan Oswald. And what is he the CEO of, Mr. Parker?”

“Business and Legal Resources, Incorporated,” Peter answers, automatically, and then he furrows his eyebrows. “Did you just decathlon coach me in the middle of a conversation?

MJ leans away from her hand, smiling. “Yeah, and you passed.”

Some kid passes by their table, talking loudly to his friend. The librarian shoots them all a withering look, like Peter and Michelle are the problem, too.

“Kind of hypocritical of you, though,” MJ says, ignoring the librarian. “Saying I need to be more open when you’re exactly the same.”

He stares at her. “What does that mean?”

She stares back. “Peter, you keep obvious secrets, and you barely share them with Ned. We talk about it.”

“What do you talk about?” Peter asks, panicked.

MJ waves him down. “Relax. Ned would never spill anything. He’s your best friend, but he agrees that you need to open up to more people. Nobody hangs out with you because you don’t let them, you know that right? You could have been dating Liz a long time ago if you had just talked to her.”

He thinks of Liz, standing in the middle of the homecoming dance, watching him walk away from her. He doesn’t want to imagine what her face looked like. How he must have hurt her so badly. And then there was her dad, letting Peter play the hero in the warehouse, doing flips like some kind of showpony, and that was when the whole building --

Peter rubs at his face. “I’m trying, okay?”

MJ gaze casts to the side, and she’s much more serious all of a sudden. “I know. I’m not blaming you. I’m trying, too. One step at a time, y’know?”

He breathes, taking his hands away from his face. MJ blinks brown eyes up at him, and they look at each other.

One step at a time.

He manages a smile, even if it’s weak, and says, “I say baby steps instead. But yeah, baby steps, one step at a time, it’s all the same.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, and it sucks, because I think I can be taking leaps instead. But whatever. Just… just know I’m here, if you need me to be. I know you have Ned, and you’ve got that internship, but. Yeah.”

MJ’s already closing herself off, he can see it. All of her openness used up for the day.

So he says it before she can change her mind, “I don’t understand the Sokovia Accords and why it caused the Avengers to fight each other.”

MJ looks at him.

He can’t admit how deep the shame of that statement is. How he just blindly followed Mr. Stark to Germany without being able to offer any opinion or take a stance. And god, he really would do it again, for Mr. Stark, but then there were the articles after, about how there will be imprisonment of any unregistered superhumans, and he thinks about Spider-Man, hiding behind a mask. He wonders if Spider-Man should have been there at all.

“And you’re really into politics and civil rights and, and, and maybe you could…” he trails off.

MJ pulls on her bangs. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Peter asks.

She nods. “Okay. I’ll help you through the accords, but you owe me a favor. Deal?”

He should ask what kind of favor, but to be honest? Peter thinks it will be fine.

He says, “Deal.”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter Parker (7:54 PM): saw you were in nairobi!

Peter Parker (7:54 PM): hope you can do some sightseeing

Tony-freaking-stark (10:01 PM): Great to hear from you, Underoos. Bit busy for sightseeing. We’ll talk next time I’m stateside.

Peter Parker (10:01 PM): sounds good!!

 

* * *

 

Three nights later, he’s perched on the rooftop of a Bank of America, and he’s listening to two guys arguing outside of a bar from down in the alley. They are drunk, but it hasn’t quite escalated past shouting yet, so Peter sits just to be sure.

Karen says in his ear, “You haven’t sent a report to Happy in four days. Would you like me to send one?”

Peter hums, eyes narrowing as one of the men, the one with a Celtics hat, shoves at the other. The man stumbles a bit. One of his buddies, who was just watching by the backdoor, puffs his chest, stomping over. He throws a finger in the face of the Celtics guy. A girl smoking a cigarette by the dumpster shifts her weight from foot to foot, head swiveling between the men.

Peter crawls down the side of the building. “Remind me in two days.”

“Okay,” Karen says easily. “In two days I’ll remind you to report to Happy. Any reason you don’t want to do it now?”

The shouting reaches a peak, and a light comes on in a window from up above the alley.

“Uh, kinda busy here, Karen. Not exactly going to stop and send Happy a text in the middle of patrol.”

Celtics Guy clenches a fist. He steps back, muscles tensing.

“Whoa,” Peter says. “I think I’m about to join my first bar fight.”

He jumps from the side of the building, flipping down to the alley. His landing startles the girl, who shrieks. The three men jump, one of them swears.

“Holy fuck,” Celtics Guy says. “It’s the spider-guy.”

“Spider-Man,” Peter supplies. “And it’s only eleven, guys. Aren’t you a bit too far along? Let’s all agree that water is a good idea. Do you want water? Let’s all drink some water. Hydration and all that.”

The two friends scramble towards the backdoor, yanking at it twice before it opens and stumbling over one another to get inside. Celtics Guy sways precariously to one side.

“You,” he slurs at Peter, “can get fucked.”

“Hey, man,” Peter says. “Is that the vodka talking? Because vodka makes you mean. Stay off the vodka. Again, can I suggest some water? That seems like a great idea.”

Celtics Guy brings back his fist in a swift movement, the hair on the back of Peter’s neck rises, and he instantly reacts — grabbing the man’s wrist in his own. He squeezes, trying to get Celtics Guy to know he’s not in control.

The man shouts, he twists his hand, and Peter’s head knows it’s a bad idea before his body does.

“Peter — “ Karen intones, but she’s too late.

He doesn’t let go of Celtics Guy’s wrist fast enough. Actually, he thinks he grabs on even harder.  Celtics Guy’s fingers spasm, his fist unclenching in a bout of pain.

 _Let go, Peter,_ a voice says in his head, but his body won’t listen. _You’re gonna hurt him._

Celtics Guy jerks in Peter’s grip, and that’s when the man’s wrist makes a crack that sends shivers down Peter’s spine. The cry he makes after is just as bad.

“Oh, my god,” Peter says, stepping back, and his arms go limp at his side. The man collapses on the ground, cradling his fist. “Karen, how bad is it?”

Enhanced strength is too much sometimes, especially for drunk, sloppy men. Peter could hold a moving car in place with his strength. Evidently he can shatter bone with it, too.

“A distal radius fracture,” she says. “It will need alignment.”

“Oh, my god,” Peter says, he runs his hands over the top of his head.

“What did you do?” a voice asks, and Peter whips his head towards the dumpster, where he had forgotten about the smoking girl. She dropped her cigarette, her mouth gaping.

“I-I didn’t mean to,” Peter stammers, he waves his hands desperately.

“That was crazy,” she says. “You didn’t even _move_. How strong are you? Oh, my god.”

“Someone call a fucking ambulance,” Celtics Guy grounds out from down by Peter’s feet. “ _Spider-Man broke my wrist_.”

“Emergency responders contacted, Peter. Arrival in eight minutes,” Karen says. “Should I call Mr. Stark?”

“No!” Peter says.

Celtics Guy lifts his head, staring in disbelief. “No? You broke my fucking wrist!”

He moves said wrist, gasps, and curls over it again.

“No, no, not you! I called an ambulance!” Peter assures him. “Karen, don’t call Mr. Stark.”

“Okay, Peter,” she tells him. “Should I make a report for Happy, then?”

“No reports, Karen!”

The cigarette girl says, “Who are you _talking_ to?”

“I’m suing you,” Celtics Guy slurs. “I’m suing you so hard.”

In the distance, Peter hears sirens.

He runs.

 

* * *

 

Since the plane, since Moving Day, Peter has slowed on the reports to Happy.

He went back, once, when he was still resting up from Liz’s dad. Ribs the color of raspberries, scrapes that oozed when his scabs cracked open. Legs that trembled a little every time he walked.

Yeah, he spent a lot of time in bed that weekend.

So he looked at all those blue bubbles, all the outgoing calls. Meanwhile, Ned’s messages outnumbered Peter’s. May’s outnumbered Peter’s. Hell, even MJ’s outnumbered Peter’s. But with Happy’s inbox? Peter was the only one texting and calling.

Peter felt _so stupid._

 _Then_ , get this: they took him upstate, and there were _Quinjets_ taking off, like a goddamn superhero airport, and Mr. Stark showed him that suit. Oh, god, that suit.

And that was it. It was the one chance to be included in the game. To be going off on missions like Germany, to be fighting alongside _Iron Man._

Peter doesn’t regret his choice. He doesn’t. Well, maybe. He doesn’t know.

But he didn’t want it then, and so he turned it down, and now he has to be reminded how much of a nobody he must be to Mr. Stark.

A fifteen-year-old high schooler who was pestering them every day, who had to take down a goddamn plane to just make up for all his mistakes. Most people -- normal people, not Iron Man, not an Avenger -- would just take an apology.

Even now, Tony Stark will call every once in awhile, and Peter chooses to talk about goddamn calculus.

God. He’s so stupid.

So his reports have slowed to twice a week. Once by the end of the weekdays, once at the end of the weekend.

Peter has to remind himself to be cool. To lay off. No wonder Happy couldn’t stand hearing from him all those months ago.

God, he’s so stupid. So, so stup—

“Peter?” May calls, voice sleep-thick.

The lights flicker on.

Peter flinches in the light. He’s in the kitchen, or more accurately, hanging from the kitchen ceiling.

He panicked, and now he’s on the kitchen ceiling, still in his suit.

After he broke that man’s wrist, he had webbed himself up to another rooftop, spent three minutes deciding what to do, and then watched as an ambulance and a police cruiser pulled into the mouth of the alley. They packed the man into the ambulance good enough, although he gave them some trouble: swearing and swinging his unbroken arm angrily. The cigarette girl had spoken to the officer, and Peter sat on the rooftop, listening to every word.

“It just snapped! He’s gotta have like, Daredevil muscles or something, my god!” She waved her arms, the police officer jotted it down in a notebook, Celtics Guy swore from the ambulance.

Peter jumped off the rooftop, swinging away and trying to get home.

It was late by the time he got home, coming through the window, and he knew May would be asleep. But he didn’t know what to do.

He paced for ten minutes outside her bedroom door. He tore his mask off and scrubbed his hands across his scalp about a thousand-and-one times. He gripped his cracked phone so tight he was afraid it’d break even more.

In the end, he crawled onto the ceiling, and now May’s up.

She comes in the kitchen, eyes squinting in the light, and sees Peter dangling.

“What are you doing?” she asks, but then she blinks at him and her voice cracks when she says, “Oh, god, what’s wrong? What happened? Peter, are you hurt?”

His face must have given him away.

“I just,” Peter tries, and the words won’t come.

He doesn’t know how to talk about this. How does he explain that he doesn’t want to be able to hear someone brushing their teeth from three floors down, that he doesn’t want to be able to break wrists simply because his grip is equal to a steel vice. He doesn’t want to sit in school and have Flash be an asshole to him like he’s helpless to stop it.

But then how does he say that he does want all of that? He wants to get on private jets and fly to missions. He wants to talk to Tony Stark and not sound like an idiot. He wants to leap off skyscrapers and catch himself right before getting hit by a bus on Roosevelt Avenue. He wants to be content knowing that Flash could never know any of those feelings, and laugh with Ned when Flash loses his shit over how cool Spider-Man is.

The stupid radiator hisses from the corner of the living room. The apartment is sweltering.

He rotates on the ceiling, the webbing he’s hanging from swaying slightly.

“Peter,” May demands.

He spins around slowly, and he sees her frizzed bedhead, her wide eyes, and mouth pressed into a thin line. Her shoulders are tight with tension. She’s got her solar system robe on. It had been a gift from Peter and Ben three years ago. Her sleep clothes are wrinkled beneath it, but she’s wide awake. Not tired. Not yet. Not crumpled, ashen, and tired.

“I just want to get things right,” Peter whispers. “I just want people to know I’m trying.”

He just wants Mr. Stark to know he’s not some stupid kid, but here he’s messed up again. The evidence is piling up and it’s not in favor of Peter. Broken fire hydrants, dead dogs, broken wrists. Looking out for the little guy? Peter can’t even do that.

May slumps, eyes getting shiny, shoulders sloping in defeat.

“Oh, baby,” she says. “Oh, Peter.”

She comes forward and puts her hands on either side of his head, keeping him still. He closes his eyes when she lines her forehead up with his, placing them together.

“It’ll be okay, Peter,” she says. “I promise you.”

 

* * *

 

Peter Parker (1:46 AM): broke drunk guy’s wrist at mike’s pub by queens blvd

Peter Parker (1:46 AM): it was an accident

Peter Parker (1:47 AM): lost a little control. im sorry

Peter Parker (1:49 AM): called him an ambulance don’t worry

Peter Parker (1:49 AM): sorry

Peter Parker (1:51 AM): do I have to cover his hospital fees. ambulances are expensive. it really was an accident. he swung first tho

Peter Parker (2:01 AM): … I’m sorry

 

* * *

 

happy more like grumpy (8:12 AM): You’re going upstate tomorrow. Boss wants to talk about this pub incident.

Peter Parker (8:22 AM): ok

 

* * *

 

The morning that Peter is to go upstate, Aunt May has to leave early, but she leaves a sticky note on the fridge.

_Two women on Facebook said they’ll check out the animal shelter! Hooray!_

It doesn’t cheer him up, really, but he draws a smiley on the note anyway. He wonders if one of the women is Ned’s mom. Peter doesn’t have a Facebook. The only ones who’d Friend him would be May and Ned anyway.

Besides, his phone has been around since Ben was still --

Yeah, so his phone is old. It probably couldn’t handle that many apps anyway.

“Why don’t you ask Mr. Stark for a new one? Dude, could you imagine having the newest Stark Phone. Flash would die from jealousy,” Ned said once, and Peter couldn’t tell him, he couldn’t explain it, so he just shrugged the question off.

Peter has an old phone, and god he’d love a new one, sure. But May and him went to the phone store once, when they had the money for a new one, and the clerk told Peter that they wouldn’t be able to transfer his phone’s content to the new one since it’s so old. He told him that to get a new phone he’d have to exchange his old one.

And the problem isn’t that Peter is worried about losing his photos. They’re all mostly of Ned or May, with one or two of MJ when she stole it once, and another of the Decathlon team. He can always ask people for their contact information again. That’s not hard.

It’s just.

There’s a voicemail, on Peter’s phone, and it’s from Ben.

He can’t lose that.

At that thought, his phone lights up on the table, vibrating next to his bowl of cereal. Peter clicks the home button, has to click again because it’s cracked to all hell and doesn’t pick up his touch sometimes, and sees a text from Happy.

happy more like grumpy (10:10 AM): Here. Hurry up.

Peter groans, rubs at his face, then reaches for his backpack on the floor. He double-checks his shoelaces, then grabs his keys and heads out the door.

 

* * *

 

Peter Parker (10:11 AM): omw down. can we stop at dunkin’

happy more like grumpy (10:11 AM): No.

Peter Parker (10:12 AM): pleeeeeeaaaase

Peter Parker (10:12 AM): please

Peter Parker (10:12 AM): please please please

happy more like grumpy (10:13 AM): Fine. No coffee, though. I’m not dealing with you on caffeine. Now hurry the hell up.

 

* * *

 

Peter walks out of his apartment building, sees the sleek Audi, and tells himself, “Baby steps.”


	2. Easy Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. this chapter is literally one scene, and a lot milder emotionally. but! tony and peter interactions. again, let me emphasize how much building this story still has to do. anyway, thanks for the support, and enjoy.

Happy brings Peter to a lab on the underground floor of the compound. Peter sees, through a room made of clear glass walls, Mr. Stark huddled over a workbench. AC/DC muffles through the glass.

At the end of the lab —and holy shit, it’s a huge lab, bigger than the ones he saw on the Oscorp field trip — there’s an Iron Man suit hanging on the wall.

It all feels a little surreal.

“Oh, my god,” Peter says, and Happy shoots him a look.

“Seriously?” Happy asks. “You know you’ve seen all this before, right?”

Peter has to take a moment to gape. Gaping is necessary here. If he doesn’t get all his gaping out now there’ll be a high risk of self-imploding later.

Happy huffs, flashes an ID card to a scanner pad, and the glass door slides open. AC/DC comes through clean and clear.

“Not the lab,” Peter breathes, and then, “Holy shit. Are those blueprints for polymer gel muscles? What’s that going to be? Prosthetics? Dude. Imagine how much cooler prosthetics would be. They’d be so much more reactive, and, and — ”

“ — and they won’t have the cons that come with regular prosthetics. No skin irritations with sockets, less risk of infection, no chance of loosening the implants.” Mr. Stark turns around on his workbench, leaning forward on his knees. “It’s just a little side project. Nice eye, spiderling.”

He waves a hand, and the AC/DC filling the lab decreases in volume until it’s faint background noise. Mr. Stark stretches his back, and that’s when Peter notices that he is wearing a grease-stained shirt and jeans. Peter didn’t know Mr. Stark wore jeans. Holy shit. _Is this real?_

“I’m taking this as my cue to leave,” Happy says from behind Peter, and Peter totally forgot he was even there. “I can barely tolerate one scientific genius, let alone two.”

“The disrespect,” Mr. Stark says, shooting Peter a look like Peter should have a say in this. “This is why FRIDAY is my favorite. I still say you could try taking pointers, Hap.”

Happy makes an impressive, deadpan look. “I still say you could try taking pointers from Pepper. I’m leaving. Can I leave? I’m going to leave.”

Mr. Stark stands up from the bench, making shooing motions at Happy. “Be back in an hour for the kid.”

“Slave-driver,” Happy mutters, and then, walking towards the door, he says to Peter, “We’re not stopping anywhere on the way back this time, so don’t ask.”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Happy. See you in a bit.”

The glass door slides close, and Peter watches Happy go around the outside of the lab, very aware that he’s alone with Tony Stark. The last time that happened he was on Staten Island, and there were emergency responders, reporters, and bystanders on the street like an overflowing anthill.

He pictures Mr. Stark, jaw clenched, telling him, _And_ _I wanted you to be better_.

“Kid, take your coat off, stay awhile,” Mr. Stark says, and then cringes. “Great. I sound like a cliché.”

Peter shuffles. Mr. Stark gives a pointed look.

“Oh! Oh, right.” Peter fumbles with his zipper, tugging his arms out of his coat sleeves. “Where should I put it?”

Mr. Stark waves his hand. “Just drop it on the table.”

Peter drops his backpack and coat beside an onset of tools. He sees something that might totally be a handheld laser. Holy shit.

Peter shoots a glance towards Mr. Stark, hoping he didn’t see his internal geeking.

Mr. Stark raises his eyebrows.

Ugh.

“So,” Peter starts, wringing his hands. “You wanted… to, uh, hear about the bar… thing.”

Mr. Stark says, “Yeah, we’ll get to that. After you explain your shirt. Seriously, Underoos?”

Peter looks down at his shirt, wondering if he got ketchup on his sleeve or something. He pulls on the hem, straightening out the blue cotton. When he doesn’t see anything he glances back up at Mr. Stark, confused. It’s just a graphic tee.

“I mean, it is a little big?” Peter asks more than says. “But I don’t see — ”

He recognizes it then. It’s the shirt MJ lent him the day Flash dumped milk all over him. He hasn’t returned it yet, partially because he only did laundry like, two days ago, and also it’s. Well.

It’s nice. Not just because it’s soft, although it is. But it’s just. Intimate. It’s normal. Peter sees friends sharing clothes all the time, and it’s like letting Ned wear the Spider-Man mask, except it’s a shirt instead of a multi-million dollar vigilante suit.

But more importantly? The shirt MJ lent him has a colored-in silhouette of Thor on the front. He’s posed with his hammer lifted towards the sky, his hair flowing to the side.

It looks cool as all hell, and it’s, like, Thor.

“Oh,” Peter says, dragging the sound out. He sounds like a ghost. _Ohhh_. “Do you mean Thor?”

“Yes, kid. I mean Thor.” Mr. Stark comes forward and claps him on the shoulder, an echo of the last time Peter was at the compound, when Mr. Stark offered him a place among the Avengers. “Some advice for you; don’t wear another Avenger’s merchandise when meeting a different Avenger. We’re a bit serious about our fans.”

Peter knows Mr. Stark’s joking, he really does, but he still feels the sting. Peter wants to be more than just a fan to Mr. Stark.

 _Don’t be stupid_ , Peter tells himself. _You’re just overreacting_.

“It’s my friend’s,” Peter blurts out, and he doesn’t even know why he’s defending himself.

Mr. Stark nods. “Ted, right? The one that called Happy?”

God. Of course he knows every detail about homecoming night.

He wonders if Mr. Stark knows about Liz, and how Peter ruined her life.

“It’s Ned, sir,” Peter says, letting Mr. Stark guide him to a chair away from the polymer gels. “And no, the shirt is my friend MJ’s.”

He blinks, wondering why that sounds so weird, and then it hits him in a lopsided kind of way. He never called MJ his friend before.

Mr. Stark takes a seat in a spinning stool, swiping a hand across his scalp, but it doesn’t make his hair go in a thousand directions like when Peter does. Mr. Stark’s hair stays perfect. Peter wonders how embarrassing it’d be if he asked Mr. Stark if he uses hair gel and where he buys it from.

The AC/DC music has changed to a Queen song at some point.

 _Bohemian Rhapsody_. Ben used to have that as his ringtone for May.

Peter wraps his hand around his phone inside his pocket.

“Well, your friend MJ should try branching their style out. There’s no lack of Iron Man merchandise, make sure you let them know that.” Mr. Stark spins a little in his seat. “So, Mike’s Pub. Fractured wrist of one Denny Noble. What happened, kid? You said you lost a little control, what’s that mean? Are we talking emotionally, physically, maybe Hulk levels? Don’t answer that. No one is on Hulk’s level.”

Peter opens and closes his mouth. “It… He was. I just.” He rubs a hand across his scalp, knows it’s sending his hair in a thousand points, knows Mr. Stark is waiting, eyebrows raised, eyes intent on Peter’s face. “I just forgot. It’s hard. Being able to do what I can in a fight and trying to keep it in check. You go to stop a sucker punch, and it’s equivalent to being a cement wall.”

Mr. Stark works his jaw, narrowing his eyes. “Have you had any other cases like this? It doesn’t necessarily have to deal with people.”

He pictures a few weekends ago, webbed to the passenger door of a stolen SUV with about three shrieking police cars following behind. One of the thieves threw open the passenger door, flinging Peter off, and for a moment Peter thought he’d go under the wheels. He kicked blindly, knowing it was too hard, and he flew towards the sidewalk. When he collided with the fire hydrant, it practically shattered against him, water bursting in an explosion.

If he had been a normal person, he would have been the one to shatter instead. He wonders if that would have been the better outcome.

There’s about a dozen cases like that. Collateral damage, vandalized property. Peter has only just now started thinking about all of the people he’s beaten up. He can only imagine how many walked away with more than a few bruises. He never bothered to check.

Judging by the look on Mr. Stark’s face, he’s probably remembering all of Peter’s reports to Happy, too.

Peter looks to the ground, sullen. “How much was the ambulance?”

“Don’t worry about the ambulance,” Mr. Stark says, throwing his hands up. “Jesus. I’m not going to make a fifteen-year-old pay for the ambulance of a drunk asshole.”

Peter’s almost tempted to say, “I could pay for it,” but that’d be a blatant lie. He’s trying to be a little less embarrassing, being stubborn won’t help the cause at all.

Mr. Stark pinches the bridge of his nose. “Where were we?”

“Uh.” Peter shifts his weight to his left foot. “You were mad about the Thor shirt, and then I said it’s my friend MJ’s, and then I was telling you about the pub incident, and then — ”

“Right, right.” Mr. Stark waves a hand. “So you got like, a surplus of strength that you still don’t have the footing for. Okay, I can work with that.”

He turns in his chair, presses a button on his watch, and a hologram screen bursts into being in mid-air.

“Oh, my god,” Peter says.

“This isn’t a church, kid,” Mr. Stark says, back still turned. “You don’t know how to fight, either, do you?”

It’s less of a question than Mr. Stark just talking to himself. Peter crosses his arms across his chest anyway, defensive.

“I can fight,” Peter says.

“Flipping around like a jumping spider — no reference intended, do not take that to heart — is not fighting. You’re just lucky because you got a punch that’s on Cap levels.”

It’s one of the first times Peter has heard Mr. Stark mention Captain America since Germany, and yeah, he should probably be focusing on the fact that Mr. Stark just compared him to Captain-Freaking-America, but he thinks of the other day in the library with MJ.

He swallows. “How was Nairobi?”

“Hm?” Mr. Stark moves his hands over the screen, making different icons pop up. “Oh, yeah. Do me a favor, kid. Never become a politician. Where’s your suit?”

“Oh, uh.” Peter reaches for his backpack on the bench. “Did, uh, did anything get done? At Nairobi, I mean.”

He moves his calculus book to the side, but his suit must have gotten squished at the the bottom of the bag. Peter sighs through his nose, pulling his notebooks and folders out. He drops them on the table, scrapes his hand against the bottom of his backpack until he feels the fabric of his suit.

Mr. Stark swivels in his stool, watching Peter try to smooth out his Spider-Man suit. “It’s a long process, especially since it’s an international ruling.” He blinks. “That was a roundabout way of saying no, in case you missed that. Let me see it.”

Peter must hesitate, because Mr. Stark raises his eyebrows. “I’m not taking it away. Well, I am taking it away, but just for a quick tune-up. We’re going to do something about channeling your strength.”

“Yeah, right. Of course, I know.” Peter jerks the suit over, but he knocks his elbow into one of his folders. Papers spew onto the floor.

Peter drops to the ground, picking them up, feeling his ears burning. He shuffles them together, grabs the neon yellow folder, and shoves them in.

“New York City Animal Care Centers Admissions Center,” Mr. Stark reads. “God, that’s a mouthful. What’s this, kid?”

Peter jerks his head up. Mr. Stark is holding one his papers.

“That’s, well, that’s just. I’m trying to, um, get some volunteering in. Y’know, for college applications and all that.” Peter holds his hand out for the application. “And the shelters are pretty crowded right now, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to help out.”

He realizes, a little stupidly, that Happy might have told Mr. Stark about the dog fighting ring. Mr. Stark holds onto the paper for a second, eyes reading over the print, and Peter thinks he might even call Peter out on his lie.

But instead he hands it back, and Peter takes it gratefully.

Mr. Stark shrugs, picking up the suit that Peter dropped when he scrambled for his papers. “Looking out for the little guy, even if the guy has four legs, right? I get it.”

“Yeah,” Peter breathes. “Yeah.”

Mr. Stark drapes the suit over his work table, and he goes back to the floating screen. “FRI, remind me to program ‘Play Nice’ protocol for Mr. Parker.”

Peter splutters, and a disembodied woman’s voice says, “Sure thing, Boss.”

“Holy shit,” Peter breathes. “Karen has a sister.”

Mr. Stark’s brow furrows. “Karen? Who’s — oh, your AI. Wasn’t expecting the suburban mom name if I’m honest, but if I’m even more honest? I don’t want to know the reference, either.”

He spins on the stool, shooting Peter a look. “I’m assuming her name is a reference.”

Peter bites his lip. “It’s from — ”

Mr. Stark holds up a hand. “Nope. Don’t want to know.”

 _Spongebob_ , Peter doesn’t finish, and he’s seriously, seriously, seriously glad he doesn’t.

Mr. Stark watches him a touch longer, almost as though he expects Peter to still say it, but when Peter doesn’t he nods. “Okay, so the suit should be back to you within two days.”

Peter, before he can help himself, says, “But what about Spider-Man?”

“ _Spider-Man_ ,” Mr. Stark says. “can take two days off. No, wait, scratch that. He _will_ take two days off. No pyjama-slinging. Do you hear me? Go do… something. Walk the dogs. Go to decathlon practice. Teach your aunt a new meatloaf recipe.”

Peter pushes his tongue to the inside of his cheek.

Swiveling on his stool, Mr. Stark is spinning back to the screen. “Oh, and we’re going to introduce you to a friend of mine. You need to learn some basic self-defense. Consider it a mixture of day camp and light hazing.”

“A, uh, a friend?” What does Tony Stark consider a friend. “Like… ” Don’t say Captain America, don’t say Black Widow, don’t say —  “like Vision?”

“Vision? No. He’s not a brawler. He’s more of a love child of advanced technology, high IQs, and just a little bit of Point Break. No need for a mean swing when you got all that.” Mr. Stark works his jaw, eyes getting distant. “Besides, he’s a bit busy these days. Trying to hide his scarlet fever.”

Mr. Stark patters his fingers on his thigh, his middle three fingers jumping in quick succession. The silence on Peter’s side of the table feels deafening.

Peter has absolutely no idea what any of that means. Not a single word.

Mr. Stark blinks rapidly, like he’s batting away his thoughts. He looks up from the floor, turning his head and meeting Peter’s stare evenly. Whatever he sees on Peter’s face makes him quirk a smile. Peter hunches, squeezing his hands between his thighs.

“That was internal rambling made external. When you’ve been around long enough you’ll learn to take it as you will.” Mr. Stark flicks his hand at the screen, an image of a man comes up, and Peter leans forward to get a better look. “No, I’m talking about an old MIT buddy. He was in Germany with us.”

“That’s War Machine! That is War Machine. Oh, my god. I’m going to get my ass kicked by War Machine.” Peter jumps out of his chair, and he comes up to Mr. Stark’s shoulder, gaping at the profile picture of War Machine on the screen. James Rhodes is holding a beer up to his mouth, looking at the camera man with a half-smile formed. “He helped with the Star Wars plan for the huge ass guy!”

Mr. Stark just kind of watches him, every line on his face lax with amusement. “That’s him. I’ll have him teach you some basic self-defense for a few weeks. Happy’ll drive you here about twice a week, how’s that sound?”

The answer hops into his mouth, ready to pour out, but he hesitates.

He glances towards the work table. The yellow folder sitting on top of his backpack is garishly bright. He’s got two late assignments in that folder, a field trip slip for decathlon, a new design for web fluid, and the volunteer application for the animal shelter.

“I, uh,” Peter clears his throat. “Yeah. Twice a week. Totally.”

Mr. Stark snaps his fingers. “Great. FRIDAY, tell Happy we’re ready. Kid, hop up on the ceiling, we’re going to get back at Happy for his disrespect.”

And Peter doesn’t need telling twice.


	3. Passing Through

Deinopidae spiders get their family name from the Greek words _deinos_ and _opsis_.

It literally means “terrible appearance."

They spin webs that they keep between their legs, and then when something comes crawling along — _whip!_ These spiders propel their web right at their prey. Excellent night-vision, unique net-casters, and also known as ogre spiders.

Peter seriously hopes that the spider that bit him wasn’t related in any way.

Coach Wilson coughs from the front of the room, and Peter jumps despite himself. He glances around the room, but the three kids in the front are busy doing some homework while a girl by the door is staring listlessly at the television by the chalkboard.

“You know what you did was wrong. Question is, how are you going to make things right?” Captain America recites from the TV screen. “Maybe you were trying to be cool. Take it from a guy who’s been frozen for sixty-five years, the only way to really be cool is to follow the rules.”

This is the third time that this Rappin’ with Cap PSA has played. Coach Wilson has just left it on repeat, and Peter has no idea how he’s going to last another fifteen minutes.

He doesn’t want to think about ogre spiders for another second.

Peter leans to the side of his desk, reaching for his backpack on the ground. He fishes through the unzippered pouch, ignoring the calculus and Spanish books, and grabs a notebook. Peter scrapes the bottom of his bag for a pencil, looking at the notebook as he does.

It’s one of those cheap, ninety-nine cent notebooks from a Dollar General or something. MJ was the one to buy it for him, so he doubts she put much thought into it, but she did choose something with a design.

On top of the plastic red cover is a cartoonish image of Thor’s hammer, Mjolnir.

“Since you have yet to return my shirt,” MJ told him, “I’ll have to assume that you’ve got some emotional need for Thor in your life.”

Peter couldn’t think of a comeback, so he thinks he’ll just hold onto her shirt just a little longer instead.

Either way, she handed him the notebook earlier that day, just after he left Principal Morita’s office for his detention. Peter had woken up early that morning to finish some homework, actually finished some assignments, left his apartment with a little more time than usual, and that’s why Peter figured he’d stop by the animal shelter before catching his train.

He thought he’d drop off his and Ned’s applications and just be on his way, but they wanted him to stay and review everything he turned in. Which meant he had to try to hold a video call with Ned long enough to verify everything. Unfortunately, his phone doesn’t do too well with anything that is not texting or regular phone calls.

So, Peter was late to first period for the fourth time that month, which meant detention. Which meant MJ had to ambush him in the hall instead of in AP history.

That’s where he got the notebook, the snide comment about Thor, and her departing comment of, “You need to stop getting detention if you want me to teach you about the Sokovia Accords. Here’s your homework. I want it done by tomorrow, or the deal is off.”

MJ can be terrifying sometimes.

Either way, detention seems like a good time to work on MJ’s assignment. He can work on his actual homework later, what with his suit out of commission until tomorrow.

Peter runs a finger along the corner of the notebook, then flips the Thor-decorated cover over. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but seeing MJ’s scrawl on the first page isn’t entirely surprising.

Peter stares for a moment, looking at the quick slope of her handwriting, like she didn’t need to think twice about what she wrote down.

For a moment, he can picture MJ dressed primly like she’d be for a decathlon meet, behind a podium. He doesn’t know what she’d be saying, or to who exactly, but he’s sure it’d be an echo of her debating with Mr. Harmon in AP History. To the point, passionate, and so-very MJ.

Peter sees her having a future. It’s funny, he almost never knows how to picture himself in five years, or one, or even in two days, but for MJ? He sees her as clear as day.

He shakes his head, trying to shake off the queasy anxiety that has begun to settle. He focuses on the paper, reading it over a little more slowly. He recognizes most of the treaties and organizations MJ wrote, but only in a way he would for a test. Just important names with a few details to go with them. Nothing fleshed out. An easy multiple-choice question, a quickly failed open-ended question.

Peter drops his head onto his desk. This might take longer than the fifteen minutes left of listening to Captain America talk on repeat.

 

* * *

 

Peter Parker (11:13 PM): we’re officially volunteers. the shelter approved our applications

guy in the chair (11:13 PM): dude awesome. when do we start

Peter Parker (11:15 PM): next week, monday. after decathlon, but you can pick your schedule after the first day.

guy in the chair (11:16 PM): monday? yikes, busy day. I’ll have my mom pack us sandwiches. when are we having MJ movie night btw

Peter Parker (11:16 PM): ur the best. and uh, how about thurs? I’ll text and ask her. has to be around 7 tho. too late?

guy in the chair (11:17 PM): it’s good. lemme know what she says

guy in the chair (11:17 PM): btw, u know im here if u need anything right?

Peter Parker (11:18 PM): of course. where’s this coming from?

guy in the chair (11:18 PM): it’s coming from the fact that ur spreading urself as thin as butter on a croissant. u don’t have to be both s-man and peter parker at the same time u know

Peter Parker (11:19 PM): I have no idea what you’re saying

guy in the chair (11:19 PM): …

Peter Parker (11:21 PM): what

guy in the chair (11:22 PM): … fine, I won’t force this, but don’t think I won’t get May to back me up. go to bed, tho. seriously. MJ and I have a betting pool, I can’t keep losing money. if u fall asleep in harmon’s class again u will be like, thrown out a window

Peter Parker (11:23 PM): I think that only happens in Matilda

guy in the chair (11:24 PM): go to bed

 

* * *

 

He’s standing in front of a judge, wringing his hands while he searches the man’s indistinct face. Peter squints, tries to make out any features, but he can’t. The judge is just a head attached to a black robe.

The judge says, “Today in court we have Spider-Man, representing himself in violation of the Sokovia Accords. Would anyone like to speak in his defense?”

A hand settles on his shoulder, and Peter thinks, _Oh, thank god. Mr. Stark._

But when he turns his head around, his eyes meet Mr. Toomes’. His metal wings are spread open on either side of him. Peter can’t see the rest of the courtroom past them.

Mr. Toomes smirks, his lips pressed thin.

“I told you, kid,” Liz’s dad says, and Peter wants to throw up. “Your buddy Stark doesn’t care about us.”

Peter wakes up gasping.

 

* * *

 

There’s this time slot of fifteen minutes before decathlon practice actually starts. Just enough time for everyone to get to their lockers, to go meet with teachers if they need to.

Peter spends his fifteen minutes on Tuesday on the edge of the auditorium stage, squeezed beside Ned to look at a video he has up on his phone. MJ sits against the wall, Peter’s Thor notebook in her lap as she reads over what he wrote last night.

Ned’s video takes a moment to buffer, and he chooses that moment to say, “MJ is how I picture Professor McGonagall would be in her teens.”

MJ doesn’t react, too intent on Peter’s work, but Peter nods. “Makes sense.”

“I hope you didn’t just define these and then stop there instead of seeing how they actually relate to the Accords,” MJ says, not looking up from the notebook.

Ned and Peter share a look.

“Isn’t that what we’re supposed to talk about today?” Peter asks. “I do the research, then we hash out the details together?”

“You should have made the connections then we would discuss what you got right, what you got wrong, and why.” She glances up, bangs hanging in her face. “This isn’t a group project, it’s me teaching you about the Sokovia Accords.”

“It’s an international policy. I thought politics didn’t have clear rights and wrongs. They have grey areas, right?” Peter says.

Ned nudges his side.

MJ raises her eyebrows. “The execution of policies and the combination of specific contexts can definitely make certain articles wrong. But in the case of the Accords, you have a point. There are a lot of grey areas.”

“Dude,” Ned says. “You almost had a debate with Michelle Jones.”

“And I’m almost impressed,” MJ deadpans.

Peter rolls his eyes. At the end of the auditorium, Mr. Harrington and Charles walk through the doors.

“Yeah, yeah.” Peter points towards his notebook. “What about the question? Did I answer that to your liking?”

_What’s wrong with only half the Avengers signing the Accords?_

MJ looks towards what Peter scrawled at the bottom of the notebook page.

“‘It makes one group into criminals — AKA the Rogue Avengers, and criminalizes the other group if they interact with said Rogue Avengers,’” MJ reads aloud. “Yeah, that was what I was getting out. The Accords pretty much make anything Captain America does illegal, and no doubt General Thaddeus Ross will try, with all the power in his gross mustache, to make the Accords about policing the Rogue Avengers instead of what it was originally intended. Can you imagine him trying to make Iron Man police illegal superheroes like some kind of mall cop?”

“Tony Stark on a segway,” Ned breathes.

Peter totally didn’t want to picture that, but now he is. He imagines Happy jogging alongside, glowering at his phone as he goes.

Oh, god. Secondhand embarrassment.

Peter shakes his head.

“You don’t think it’d make Captain America and the others, like…” Peter pauses, because he doesn’t want to say it. MJ and Ned wait for him to find the words, ever patient with him.

“Do you think it’d end up with another fight?” Peter asks.

There is very limited information available on what went down between the Avengers. From the viewpoint of the media, it says that Steve Rogers and allies defected, aided a HYDRA terrorist, and destroyed a German airport. Iron Man had gathered a task force to eliminate the threat, but only several rogue agents had been imprisoned on the Raft.

It’s bad to hear about it as an outsider, what with the heroes of the world suddenly becoming the biggest international threat. But as Spider-Man? It’s absolutely terrible. It’s the taste of bile in your mouth every time you see the Accords on the news. It’s nightmares about being in court. It’s choking on your words, because he doesn’t know if he can ask Mr. Stark about it, he’ll never mention it to Aunt May, and he can’t even explain to MJ why he needs to know about all this.

Peter belongs on the Raft, or he signs and belongs to the government. He doesn’t even know if there’s a difference. He doesn’t know which one is worse. He doesn’t know what it means to be in the Raft, or what it means to be working for the government when you’re a super-enhanced human. He’s pretty sure that’s how HYDRA was even started. The fact that humanity can’t be trusted with its freedom, so some assholes started collecting powerful people.

And another fight between Captain and Mr. Stark? Mr. Stark once told him that Captain could have levelled Peter if he really tried. Did that mean that the airport wasn’t even a real fight at all?

Peter feels sick.

“Hey, hey,” Ned says, and Peter jumps. “The Accords aren’t even official yet. Everyone knows there’s a thousand things wrong with them. Nobody wants another fight.”

Peter swallows. Nods. Nods again. “Yeah, yeah. You’re right.”

MJ watches them, face carefully blank. Peter glances her way.

She looks down quickly. “Ned’s right, Parker. There’s a reason I made you research all that stuff. There’s violations throughout all of the articles. Nothing is going to happen anytime soon.”

Peter’s glad she’s not looking at him. He feels hot and prickly. Ned must have picked up Peter’s vibes, because he moved his leg so that their thighs aren’t touching anymore.

MJ slaps the notebook closed, tossing it at Peter so unexpectedly that he fumbles and drops it on the stage.

“Next time we’ll actually hash out the good and bad parts. Believe it or not, there are some decent opportunities in those stupid Accords.” She stands up, dusts off her legs. “Enough of this. It’s time for practice.”

And she leaves the topic so easily, it’s like she’s just passing through.

 

* * *

 

After decathlon, Peter and Ned walk out the eastern doors together, and there’s a sleek, black Audi in the empty bus lane.

“Is _he_ here?” Ned says. “Holy shit. It’s him, isn’t it? It’s Mr. Stark.”

Peter slaps at Ned’s arms, chest, whatever. Anything to get Ned to stop _shouting._

 _“Shut up_ ,” Peter hisses, whipping his head around.

Abe is walking out behind them, face pinched as he listens to Flash go on about something.

Peter drags Ned down the steps, desperate to get out of sight before Flash notices.

“Do you think Colonel Rhodes is in the car, too?” Ned’s eyes bulge. “Oh, my god. He’s going to teach you self-defense. Can you teach me? Do you think -- ”

“Ned, buddy. Ned. Ned.” Peter says, whipping his head around desperately. “The light of my life. Please, shut up.”

Ned practically swallows his lips. “Right. Right. Sorry, it’s just so awesome.”

Peter smiles, offering his hand. “Yeah, I know. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Ned absently reaches over and lets Peter initiate their handshake, still staring at the car. “Totally. I want details.”

The Audi honks. Behind them, Peter hears Flash pause in his conversation.

Peter grimaces and hauls ass, practically throwing himself at the car. He’s opening the door and diving into the backseat when he hears Flash saying, “Is Penis Parker getting into an _Audi_?”

The muffled sound of the door closing in the door frame is probably the best sound in the world. Peter drops his head against the car seat, exhausted.

From up front, Happy says, “Who’s the annoying kid?”

Peter blinks, head shooting upwards. It’s only Happy in the car, and he’s wearing shades despite the fact that it’s February and the sun is practically setting by now. He wonders if that’s an Iron Man clique thing. Useless accessories, sarcasm, and never looking out of place.

Peter glances out the tinted windows, seeing Ned, Abe, and Flash gaping at the car.

“Oh, Ned?” Peter says. “He’s my best friend. He, uh, tried calling you. Once. I don’t give your number out, I swear. It was just about -- nevermind.”

Happy slides his hands along the steering wheel, pulling out of his parking space. “I meant the kid who looks like a classic asshole.”

Peter glances out the window, taking in Abe’s crisp, collared button-up and khaki pants. He doesn’t think Abe looks like an asshole. Abe looks like he’s ready to walk into a five-star restaurant.

It takes an embarrassingly long moment to realize that Happy’s talking about Flash. Peter’s face prickles, getting hot, and he thinks Happy probably heard Flash call Peter “Penis Parker.”

Peter glances in the rearview mirror, and he sees his cheeks turning pink. He sinks into his coat like some kind of turtle.

“Who do you mean?” Peter says, easily, trying not to be obvious.

Happy slips into a lane of traffic so suddenly it jerks the car a little bit. “I’m talking about the kid with the smart mouth and the popped collar. Are you buckled?”

Peter tugs on his seatbelt. “Oh, he’s nobody. Just a kid from decathlon. Is Mr. Stark and Colonel Rhodes at the compound?”

It’s very obvious. Everything, that is. Peter being awkward, Peter switching the conversation, just Peter in general.

God.

Happy gives him a look through the rearview mirror, with his sunglasses slipping down his nose a little bit to give him this angry librarian look.

“Rhodes is at the compound,” Happy says, after a moment, but at least he doesn’t press the Flash thing. “I’ll take you down to the gym when we get there.”

Peter shifts his weight to his left leg. “What about Mr. Stark?”

Happy flicks on his turn signal. “Boss is out today. Has some business to take care of.”

Peter stays quiet in the backseat.

Happy glances back at him, and he works his jaw. “It’s local work, though, so he may be around for the tail end of your session.”

Peter nods, looking out the window.

Happy pitters his fingers along the steering wheel. “Listen, Rhodes is a close friend of Tony’s. Boss would be there if he could, but he trusts Rhodes to take care of you.”

“Right,” Peter says.

“FRIDAY will be recording the session anyway, so Tony won’t miss anything,” Happy adds.

That gets Peter’s attention.

“Um, what? Why is it, or, uh, _she_ recording it?” He has no idea how to refer to FRIDAY, he only just realized she exists a few days ago.

From the driver's seat, Happy looks like he might be smirking, which should immediately tell Peter something’s wrong. “Boss just wants to see how things progress, see what you learn.”

“Can’t Colonel Rhodes just report to him after?”

Happy is totally smirking now. That is one-hundred percent a smirk. “Yeah, he could, but it’s a bit of a tradition to watch how these things go. Kind of an initiation thing, really. You should feel welcomed.”

If this was any other situation, Peter would preen. He knows he’s not an Avenger, but he’s meeting other Avengers, and he’s training with them, and Happy just said it’s an initiation, too.

But that’s how Peter knows something’s up.

“What’s the video file going to be named?” Peter asks, voice dry.

Happy grins. “‘Baby’s First Steps.’”


	4. A Place at Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “God, kid,” Mr. Stark says, lips quirked “You should do stand-up.”
> 
> Peter should probably be bothered by the teasing, but he’s too busy thinking about the fact that he isn’t an Avenger.
> 
> Not an Avenger yet Tony Stark still keeps a room just for Peter Parker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god, I'm sorry for the lack of update. I tried really hard to write an incredibly long chapter, but it was taking so long that I decided to take this part from what I wrote and just post it here. 
> 
> due to that, nothing really too deep happens here. 
> 
> also: all of peter's phone issues are based off my own phone issues. relatability and all that

“I was told,” Colonel Rhodes tells him, “not to badger you with questions, but I gotta say, kid. I have questions.”

Peter fidgets.

There’s a long moment where Peter just stares up at Colonel Rhodes, Colonel Rhodes crosses his arms and stares back, and Happy patters away at his StarkPad, beyond done with the whole situation.

Peter wishes he could meet Ms. Potts. That seems like it’d be nice. He deserves nice things, right?

But he’d probably stop working if he actually met her. System error. Program failure. Software crash. All that. Also, he doesn’t want to be dressed in his ratty winter coat and the jeans that have a mysterious stain on the knee that is probably sweet and sour sauce. That’s not an ideal first impression.

Colonel Rhodes sighs, disrupting the stretch of silence, and he moves a little. There’s these dark alloy braces wrapped along his legs that creak quietly.

Peter hadn’t seen him fall, in Germany, but he had heard about it -- after. It just makes Peter think about how much he doesn’t know. How there was a lot more on the line then just subduing Captain America into seeing a therapist. Peter left with a black eye and some bruised ribs. Just like if he were stopping some drug dealers over by the Bronx River. 

But Rhodes? Colonel Rhodes left paralyzed from the waist down.

The Avengers left with either the world hunting them down or the world breathing down their backs.

It’s unfair.

“Alright, stop looking at me like that. I’m not going to interrogate you.” Colonel Rhodes drops his crossed arms, mouth quiring upwards. His face looks softer like that. Softer and older. Tired. “Can’t promise I won’t knock you on your ass, though.”

Peter offers a lopsided smile, relieved. “I dunno, Colonel Rhodes. I’m stronger than I look.”

“Rhodey,” Colonel Rhodes says, easy, and extends a hand. “Call me Rhodey.”

Peter doesn’t hesitate, throwing his hand out for the handshake. He keeps his grip firm, thinking of his ninth grade business education class. First rule of a proper handshake: keep your grip solid. Peter and Ned have practiced together a thousand times.

Happy snorts beside Peter. “Boss has been trying to get this kid to call him Tony for months. Don’t expect him to do the same for you. He’s a straight-laced fan.”

“Happy,” Peter says, glaring, taking his hand back. “C’mon, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude.” Happy turns away, heading to the door. “Anyway, I’ll leave you two. Kid, your suit is down in the gym.”

“Thanks,” Peter grumbles, but then freezes.

He glances at Colonel Rhodes, heart racing.

Colonel Rhodes smiles, raising his hands like he’s calming an animal. “Relax, kid. Your secret is safe with me. It was a little hard for Tony to try and explain why his intern needed some combat training, especially with someone like me. He could afford any trainer. He only asks me for favors when it’s personal.”

Peter swallows.

Colonel Rhodes lowers his hands. “Don’t worry. We’re good, Spider-Man. Anyone who can use a Star Wars reference as a battle plan has got a lot of creative potential in my mind.”

Peter’s ears are hot. “It’s a great series.”

“I’m not teasing you,” Colonel Rhodes says, but the way he says it makes it sound like he totally is. “C’mon, let’s head down to the gym.”

Peter has never actually been to the gym, nor knew a gym existed at the compound, so he lets Rhodey lead the way.

“So,” Rhodey drawls as they step into an elevator. There’s no buttons on the wall, but as soon as the doors shut the elevator starts moving like it knows where they’re going. Peter wonders if that’s Karen’s sister’s doing. “How old are you exactly?”

“How old are you? I thought you weren’t going to pester me with questions,” Peter points out.

“I’m old enough to vote and buy my own beer,” Rhodey counters, quick and sharp like he has practice with smart mouths. “Can you do either of those yet?”

“Hey,” Peter says. “Everyone is young once. Don’t be upset just because your time is over.”

He tries not to wince as soon as he says it, but throwing out quips is such an easy defense, Peter can’t help himself.

Rhodey doesn’t seem too bothered by it, he just looks at Peter and shakes his head.

“God, you’re like his mini-me. You’re not actually some secret love child or anything, right?” Rhodey squints hard at Peter. “I’d know if you were a love child. Maybe.”

Peter shuffles. “I think this conversation is getting away from us, and confusing me.”

The elevator comes to a stop, and the doors slide open. Peter glances away from Rhodey to look at the floor they stopped at, and he almost gapes.

It’s a literal gym. Not, like, a workout room with some weights and stuff. Peter possibly expected a few treadmills, maybe even a boxing ring.

No, this is an entire floor of the compound that has been transformed into an actual gymnasium. There’s a turf track surrounding the perimeter of the floor, red and smelling distinctly of rubber. Across from the elevator is a wall fitted into a floor-to-ceiling rock wall. Giant punching bags dangle in one corner, countless machines are placed expertly around the track, and sure enough, there isn’t one boxing ring, but three spread out across the room.

“Holy shit,” Peter breathes. “This is amazing, and like, I know I haven’t been in many gyms in my life, but this is incredible.”

Rhodey huffs in amusement, stepping out of the elevator. Peter follows, spying a counter that has several mini-fridges and a blender. There’s fresh fruit and containers of powder on the counter.

Rhodey catches his gaze. “Oh, the smoothie station. Word of advice, don’t ever accept Vision’s offer to make you a smoothie.”

Peter feels like his skin is buzzing. “Is Vision here? Will he be joining us?”

Rhodey creaks his way towards a side of the room, and Peter follows distractedly, trying to look at everything he can.

“Probably not. He doesn’t really do workouts since there’s not many of us using this place anymore. He’s somebody who doesn’t need it.” Rhodey waves a hand. “Over there are the aerial silks, which Nat used to use. That console over that? You can set up all types of training holograms for combat practice, or in Clint’s case -- archery. Tony has a good battling ropes workout if you ever ask him about it. Uh, the punching bags are fitted to withstand Steve’s hits, so probably don’t start with those.”

Peter zeroes in on Rhodey’s face, feeling something uneasy squirm in his stomach, but Rhodey doesn’t give any emotions away, entirely focused on describing the room.

Rhodey blinks, like he realizes that Peter’s staring, and looks over at him. Peter wrings his hands, ducks his head, and nods like he was listening to what Rhodey was saying.

“You alright, kid?” Rhodey asks, but he says it like he already knows the answer.

Peter scuffs his foot on the turf track. “I just.” He swallows, glances up at Rhodey’s expectant gaze. “I’m sorry, about what happened in Germany. I know I don’t really… know what you all went through, but I’m sorry.”

Rhodey stares, face stoic, and Peter holds his gaze.

“Is this coming from the fact that I’m mentioning the others’ names?” Rhodey asks. “Or because of the braces on my legs?”

Peter’s mouth falls open, and he feels horrible. “It’s, it’s uh, I just -- “

Rhodey crosses his arms, his legs creak. “Why’d you come? You said you didn’t know what we were going through, so why did you come to Germany?”

Peter swallows, feels the words toppling over one another in his head, and he desperately wants to look away from Rhodey’s piercing look.

“I wanted to help,” Peter says, voice quiet, and he doesn’t look away. “I wanted to help Mr. Stark. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, I just wanted to help.”

There’s a rubber-band-tense moment of silence, but Peter holds Rhodey’s gaze. Peter clenches his hands, shoves them into this hoodie pouch.

Rhodey breaks first, dropping his head into his hand and rubbing at his forehead. “God.”

Peter feels his fingernails digging into his palm.

Rhodey lifts his head and he does that smile again, the one that makes him older and tired looking.

He says, “What a reason, kid.”

Peter says, “Yeah?”

Rhodey snorts. “Yeah. Listen, a lot of us were fighting just to be right, just to be on a side. Just to be angry. None of us really thought about stopping and thinking, because that wasn’t really our style, y’know? A lot of us had been backed into a corner before, have been in those corners together, and when you’re faced with a similar situation you sometimes forget yourself. The emotions go to your head.”

“So,” Peter ventures, nervous. “You, uh, you think the accords are right?”

Rhodey narrows his eyes. “I think taking responsibility for one’s actions is right.”

“But?” Peter asks.

Rhodey raises an eyebrow. “What makes you think there’s a ‘but?’”

“You talk in a very specific way, Mr. Rhodes,” Peter tells him. “Which is how I know you think Star Wars is nerdy. It’s not, by the way. It’s super cool. My best friend and I made this Lego Death Star that -- ”

“Stop,” Rhodey says, holding up a palm. “We’re not talking about Star Wars or Legos.”

“Right,” Peter says, face burning. “Right.”

Rhodey sighs. “Anyway, just so you know, I do think there’s a ‘but’ to what I believe in. Maybe one day I’ll talk about it with you. Right now, though, I’m supposed to be showing you how to throw a punch. Get in the locker room and change, kid.”

“I know how to throw a punch,” Peter protests, making a fist and holding it up.

Rhodey looks at the fist and blinks very slowly. “You have your thumb tucked inside your fist, kid.”

“So?”

“Oh, my god. I’m going to kill Tony.”

 

* * *

 

“Peter,” Karen chirps in his ear. “You should have jabbed at the throat, not swung wide.”

“I told you no swinging,” Rhodey calls from outside the boxing ring. “What happened to jabbing?”

“I’m going to die,” Peter tells the floor. “I always thought it’d be May’s cooking, but nope, it’s me getting my ass kicked by an android. Definitely a much cooler way to go.”

The floor doesn’t say anything. That’s probably for the best.

Trying not to groan, Peter brings his knees under himself and rises off the floor. The android he’s fighting takes a step back, waiting patiently. It’s a very basic model, definitely nothing as cool as one of Mr. Stark’s suits, but evidently it is functional enough to make a good sparring partner.

After talking about Germany, Rhodey made Peter get dressed in the locker room, where Peter found a brown paper bag holding Peter’s suit. Peter had changed quickly and came back out expecting Mr. Rhodes to start sparring with him. Instead, Rhodey made Peter leave his book-bag on a bench, run a mile on the track to warm up, then do some basic stretching.

From there he made Peter stand across from him, and he outlined some basic self-defense.

“Where are the most effective body parts to hit?” Rhodey asked.

“Uh, the nose,” Peter guessed. “Throat, knees?”

Rhodey nodded, content. “Right, but there’s a few others.”

From there he showed Peter how to maximize his hits by using his knees and elbows and leveraging his weight.

“You can use your head,” Rhodey offered. “Literally. But a headbutt can hurt you more than your attacker if you do it wrong.”

By the time the first thirty minutes went by, Peter felt like he had the most basic self-defense class there was. And then Rhodey made him practice getting out of holds. With the android.

Now Peter thinks his aches have aches.

From across the room, Peter hears the elevator doors slide open, and he glances over to see Mr. Stark walk into the gym.

Peter jerks to his feet, his muscles scream their dislike at such a movement, and he stumbles over to the edge of the ring. “Mr. Stark! I didn’t think you could make it!”

Dressed in a navy blue suit, Mr. Stark adjusts his sleeves as he saunters over to ring. He’s got these gold cufflinks that glitter in the light.

“Mr. Parker,” Mr. Stark says, mouth curving upwards. “Rhodes. Being productive I imagine? Happy tells me there’s some great stuff going on down here.”

Peter tugs off his mask, and the cool air feels great on his sweaty face. He bounces on his toes, feels tension in his calves as he does, and he scowls. “‘Baby’s First Steps?’ Really, Mr. Stark?”

Mr. Stark laughs, adjusting his yellow sunglasses as he comes to take a place on the bench by the ring. Rhodey rocks back on his heels, standing across from Mr. Stark and leaning against the ropes of the boxing ring. They look completely different, with Rhodey in a simple black t-shirt and cargo pants and Mr. Stark in an impeccable suit.

Despite that, they both have similar body language -- relaxed, open. Same way Peter would be with Ned.

“Where’ve you been?” Rhodey asks. “I’ve been working your intern and you’re off doing what exactly?”

Mr. Stark shrugs, but it barely crinkles his suit. “Just some charity work. I was looking into a promising partner. Local, too. You can’t blame a man for wanting to help the locals, Rhodey.”

“I can when you’re no longer the CEO of Stark Industries,” Rhodey points out. “Isn’t Pepper supposed to be in charge of those things?”

Mr. Stark purses his lips and raises his gaze like he’s thinking seriously about it, but his tone is too easy when he says, “I like to meddle here and there. It’s a bad habit of mine.”

Peter leans against the ropes that Rhodey is leaning against, and Rhodey blinks like he remembers that Peter is there.

“You’re good, kid.” Rhodey reaches up and claps Peter on the back. “Go get a drink.”

“Definitely look like you need it, Pete,” Mr. Stark adds. “I’m looking forward to watching the video of your workout later.”

Peter sends Mr. Stark a dirty look, but he’s right. As Rhodey turns to walk over to Mr. Stark’s seat, Peter tries not to run to the mini-fridge filled with various brands of water bottles at end of the bench. He hops out of the ring, instantly eyeing a brand of water he’s never seen before. He bends over and grabs it, fiddles with the cap while he walks over to his backpack.

Swallowing the contents of the bottle in a few seconds, Peter grabs his phone to check the time. Instead, he sees a voicemail notification on the screen. He recognizes the number as the dog shelter.

Peter groans despite himself.

At the other end of the bench, the quiet conversation between Rhodey and Mr. Stark pauses.

“What’s up, kid?”

Peter glances their way, then looks back at his phone. “It’s nothing. The dog shelter just left me a voicemail is all.”

Mr. Stark raises a singular eyebrow, ignoring the quizzical look Rhodey directs his way. “Is that bad? I thought you wanted to volunteer for them.”

“I do!” Peter says, flapping his free, sweaty hand uselessly. “It’s just my phone acts up every time. Not kidding. It takes two minutes of it freezing just to listen to a twenty second voicemail.”

Peter glares down at his phone as he says this, almost like its cracked screen and plethora of problems are its fault instead of the countless times Peter has dropped it.

“Kid,” Mr. Stark says, and he almost sounds appalled. Peter shoots his head up. “Underoos. Pete. That phone is as old as _me_. You can’t possibly be using that as anything other than a paperweight. Are you using it as a paperweight?”

Peter’s ears feel hot.

“Tony,” Rhodey hisses.

“I, uh, well. I don’t mind it. It’s simple, y’know? Don’t want to become a mindless phone zombie and all that. This keeps me —” Peter searches for a word, can’t think of one.

“Prehistoric?” Mr. Stark offers, eyebrows pushed together in the most expressive confusion Peter’s ever seen.

“I feel you, kid,” Rhodey jumps in, and Peter doesn’t miss the glare he sends Mr. Stark’s way. Mr. Stark raises his hands in surrender, pursing his lips. “Sometimes everyone is too involved in their tech.”

“Was that directed at me? I feel as though that’s directed towards me.” Mr. Stark shakes his head. “You went to MIT, too, Rhodey. You should love technological advancements. A phone from this era is a technological advancement by the way.”

“It’s seven o’clock?” Peter asks, startled as he stares at the numbers on his phone.

“Oh, the phone tells time. Good for it, I’m surprised,” Mr. Stark says, which both Peter and Rhodey ignore.

“Do you have to go home?” Rhodey asks.

Peter shoves his phone into his bag. “Yeah, it’s a school night, and it takes Happy an hour or so to drive back to Queens.” He shoots a look towards Rhodey. “Uh, will I see you again this week?”

“How about Saturday night, kid?” Mr. Stark answers. “You can stay over that way. Technically you still have a room here.”

“Pretty sure that question was for me,” Rhodey says, but he’s smiling. “Sure, Saturday works. I’m in the area for the next five weeks, so I have plenty of availability.”

“I have a room?” Peter asks.

Mr. Stark raises his eyebrows. “I told you that before. You didn’t forget did you?”

“No!” Peter says quickly, probably too quickly if the way the other two men start smirking is any indication. “I just, wow. My own room at the Avengers Compound. Wow.”

“And a shower, too,” Mr. Stark adds. “Which you desperately need right now. Get in the locker room and rinse up, kid. I’ll tell Hap to get the car. Rhodey can continue beating you up on Saturday.”

“He didn’t actually do the beating up,” Peter says, and then blanches. “I mean, there wasn’t that much beating.”

That makes both Rhodey and Mr. Stark laugh.

“God, kid,” Mr. Stark says, lips quirked  “You should do stand-up.”

Peter should probably be bothered by the teasing, but he’s too busy thinking about the fact that he isn’t an Avenger.

Not an Avenger yet Tony Stark still keeps a room just for Peter Parker.


End file.
